From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories

by Smythe, B. P.

  Slightly embarrassed, with a few people looking over and grateful the grandchildren had moved on through the entrance into the 1940’s House, Valerie rubbed Karl’s back and offered her handkerchief.

  At that moment, an elderly male attendant appeared wearing a black uniform and cap.

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes thank you, it’s just…my husband.’ Karl had straightened up and was dabbing his eyes. ‘He’s just seen something in your cabinet that’s made him emotional. Brought back some memories.’

  ‘That happens now and again in our holocaust exhibition. People do get moved, especially those that lost somebody.’ The attendant looked worried, ‘Does he want to sit down? We have a first aid room.’

  Karl put up his hand,

  ‘No - no, I’m alright.’ He composed himself while Valerie held his other hand still looking concerned. ‘I’ll be OK; it was just the shock of it.’

  ‘What was it you saw?’ The attendant cast a curious glance at the cabinet.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Karl said. He took out the pill box and showed him the cufflink. ‘See, the engraving? It’s the same as the matching one in there.’ He nodded to the display shelf.

  With his forehead up against the glass, the attendant shielded his eyes. After a few seconds he said,

  ‘You’re right, sir, it’s the same name.’

  ‘Would you know who it belongs to?’ Karl asked him with a hint of desperation knowing it was a long shot. Valerie held his hand and stroked his arm affectionately. She was glad he was back to his normal self.

  ‘Well err,’ the attendant took off his cap and scratched his head, ‘let’s see. I’ve been here thirty-seven years,’ he mumbled, ‘and I seem to remember it always being there…’ He trailed off in thought for a few seconds then, ‘I know,’ his face lit up, ‘of course, Anscombe, it’s Jack Anscombe, our curator. He was always a bit of a collector.’

  ‘So, he’s still alive?’

  ‘He was this morning, sir,’ the attendant joked.

  Karl was excited,

  ‘Would you know roughly how old he is?’

  ‘How old he is?’ The attendant repeated in surprise. ‘Well,’ he stroked his chin thoughtfully, ‘he must be in his mid-sixties by now, sir.’

  Karl quickly did the sums in his head. He turned to Valerie,

  ‘That would be right, he was just a kid in the war. So…’ Karl thought for a second then said,

  ‘Jack must be the son of the man my father met in the trenches, or perhaps the son of his brother. Yes, that must be it!’

  ‘If you say so, love,’ Valerie gently squeezed his hand.

  ‘Is he still here? Can I meet him?’

  ‘He works here, sir, but I know he’s gone to the Hyde Park VE Day celebrations this Sunday with two or three of the museum directors. As co-sponsors, we have a marquee there.’

  Karl’s face dropped.

  ‘Never mind, love,’ Valerie could see it meant a lot. ‘We could always come down another weekend?’

  ‘Damn, I did so want to meet him.’ Karl swallowed. ‘You see, I thought he was dead. Thought I’d killed him by accident during the war. I’ve lived with the guilt all these years.’

  The attendant looked amazed.

  ‘Oh my Goodness, sir, I see what you mean.’ He thought briefly, ‘You know what, sir; I’ve just had a thought. Are you in any hurry?’

  Karl looked at Valerie,

  ‘Well, we really have to be at Euston Station by 5.00p.m. to get our train back to Lancaster, you see. And we’ve got young grandchildren with us, so we can’t be late.’

  At that moment, Lenny and Amber came strolling back wondering what the holdup was about. ‘Are we going to eat soon?’ Lenny said.

  ‘Yes, we will. Granddad’s just sorting out something first so just be quiet, you two.’ Valerie shooshed them with a finger to her lips.

  The attendant continued,

  ‘We’ve got three courtesy cars on standby to ferry VIPs back and forth from our marquee at the celebrations. Perhaps, I could get one to run you up there. I’d have to phone through on our contact number first, get permission, of course, and see what they say?’

  ‘Would you? I’d be so terribly grateful.’ Karl grabbed the attendant’s hand to the man’s surprise and shook it with emotion.

  From his hip, the attendant unclipped a phone with an aerial. After pressing some buttons and interference with crackling, a conversation was underway. The attendant briefly explained to the receptionist at the car pool that an old friend of the curator would like a lift to the show. With some head-nodding as he spoke, he looked at Karl and smiled; then he put the phone away.

  ‘All done, there’s someone coming to pick you up now with a complimentary V.I.P. ticket. A car leaves every hour, so you’d be back here well in time.’ He frowned slightly, ‘Just a problem though, there’s only room for one, we’ve got people coming back on the return trip.’ He looked at Valerie.

  ‘That’s OK, love; I’ll stay here with the kids and get them some lunch in the cafeteria.’ Valerie nodded in its direction, ‘And they’ll want to go to the gift shop, so that’ll keep them occupied.’

  ‘Are you sure, Val?’ Karl looked concerned but Valerie could see this meeting meant a lot to him.

  ‘Yes, honestly, we’ll be OK.’ She gave him a hug. ‘But make sure you’re back in time for the train. You know what you’re like when you get talking - worse than any woman.’

  As Karl and the attendant made their way to the front entrance, Amber and Lenny asked,

  ‘Where’s Granddad off to?’

  ‘He’s gone to meet somebody important, he’ll be back later. Now, who’s for some lunch?’

  *

  The Ford Galaxy, with Karl and the grey suited driver wearing a matching chauffeur’s cap, wove its way across Westminster Bridge onto Victoria Street and up to Hyde Park Corner. After a few minutes’ drive through the park they reached the entrance of the corporate enclosure. As Karl got out and thanked the driver, the enormity of the VE Day celebrations hit him. In the distance, he could see thousands of people. The music was deafening; he was surrounded by speakers blasting out Sir Harry Secombe singing a rendition of Giacomo Puccini's aria, "Nessun Dorma."

  Karl showed the steward his VIP ticket and asked for directions to the Imperial War Museum marquee. The steward pointed the way along the red carpet.

  After a short walk, Karl stood at the entrance. Karl took a deep breath. He’d never envisaged this moment. He was thinking; all those years for blaming himself with all that guilt. Was it justified or did the boy really survive? He would soon find out.

  Another uniformed steward checked his ticket and let him pass.

  As Karl made his way inside the marquee he became lost amongst a group of around sixty people. All were chatting and mingling in groups, some eating off paper plates provided by the hot buffet. A passing waitress offered him a glass of champagne from her tray. Karl politely waved her away. He was about to ask a security person standing by a fire exit when, he caught sight of an identity tag worn by a smartly suited man talking with an elderly couple.

  Karl hesitated; this was it. He waited at a distance for the right moment. Then, when there was a pause in their conversation, he saw his chance as everybody took a sip from their glass.

  Karl tapped him on the shoulder.

  Jack Anscombe, now a tall, slim sixty-seven-year-old with a full head of white hair, turned around, slightly startled.

  ‘Yes. can I help you?’ he said with a perfect host smile.

  ‘Mr. Anscombe? Mr. Jack Anscombe?’

  ‘Yes. that’s me,’ he said. showing his identity tag with the photo.

  ‘My name is Karl Gottlieb; I think we met briefly once.’ Karl held out his hand and Jack slowly shook it with a bit of uncertainty.

  ‘I must say I can’t quite remember, old chap,’ he said politely.

  ‘Well, I don’
t blame you,’ Karl said, ‘I think your attention at the time was engaged in more important things.’

  Jack Anscombe, slightly embarrassed, looked at the other two with a mystified expression and then back to Karl.

  ‘Really, like what?’ He said.

  ‘Like, trying to stay alive.’ Karl quickly added, ‘I saw your exercise book at the museum. Was it you riding the bicycle in the story?’

  Looking startled, Jack replied, ‘

  My exercise book…err…yes…yes it was. Why?’

  ‘It was me in the Messerschmitt 109 in your drawing, firing at you. You highlighted the yellow nose and under cowling. Only my squadron had those markings.’ In a voice faltering with emotion Karl said, ‘Please forgive me. I mistook you for a dispatch rider. When I dived down and started shooting, I realized, but it was too late. For years I lived with the guilt that I killed you.’

  Jack Anscombe froze with his mouth open. The couple beside him shuffled uncomfortably. Jack didn’t know what to say; he stuttered something then finally said, ‘

  Are you sure…I mean…how did you know where to find me?’

  Karl took out the little fancy box and opened it.

  Jack stared at the cufflink. He slowly picked it up, totally mesmerized by the G. ANSCOMBE engraving.

  ‘It’s my cufflink,’ he said. ‘But how have you…?’

  ‘Did your father give you one like this, Jack?’

  ‘Yes he did, but I still want to know…?’

  Karl interrupted again,

  ‘It was my dad who met your dad on that Christmas day truce in the trenches during 1914. Your father gave him this cufflink. The other one is with your schoolbook in the museum.’

  ‘But that’s impossible, I can’t believe…’ Jack Anscombe unclipped his phone; he pressed some buttons and got through to the museum. After a minute he said,

  ‘You’re sure it’s still there? OK…’ Jack slowly clipped the phone back onto his belt. ‘This is all just unbelievable,’ he muttered to himself. The couple he’d been chatting with had excused themselves and moved on to the buffet.

  Karl took Jack’s limp hand and shook it. Jack seemed to be still in shock.

  ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Anscombe.’

  Jack refocused and put his arm around Karl’s frail shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, old chap. Please forgive me for doubting…’

  Jack was overcome, he dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

  Through the speakers, Vera Lynn sang , We’ll Meet Again; the final song to end the celebrations. It was one of those moments; everyone linked arms in the marquee and began to sway and sing along. Jack and Karl joined a group, and as they sang, they smiled at each other…‘We'll meet again…Don’t know where…Don’t know when…But I know we’ll meet again…. Some……sunny……day…’

  THE END

  If you enjoyed From A Poison Pen, help others find it too by leaving a review on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com

  Look out for the 2nd collection of B.P. Smythe’s short stories to be released in summer 2016.

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